The Garden of Allah eBook

Domini waited for the return of Marelle. Her
mood had changed. A glow of cordial humanity
chased away her melancholy. The hostess that lurks
in every woman—­that housewife-hostess sense
which goes hand-in-hand with the mother sense—­was
alive in her. She was keenly anxious to play the
good fairy simply, unostentatiously, to these exhausted
men who had come to Mogar out of the jaws of Death,
to see their weary faces shine under the influence
of repose and good cheer. But the tower looked
desolate. The camp was gayer, cosier. Suddenly
she resolved to invite them all to dine in the camp
that night.

Marelle returned with Batouch. She saw them from
a distance coming through the darkness with blazing
torches in their hands. When they came to her
she said:

“Batouch, I want you to order dinner in camp
for the soldiers.”

A broad and radiant smile irradiated the blunt Breton
features of Marelle.

“And Monsieur the officer will dine with me
and Monsieur. Give us all you can. Perhaps
there will be some gazelle.”

She saw him opening his lips to say that the dinner
would be poor and stopped him.

“You are to open some of the champagne—­the
Pommery. We will drink to all safe returns.
Now, give me the brand and go and tell the cook.”

As he took his torch and disappeared into the darkness
De Trevignac came out from the tower. He still
looked exhausted and walked with some difficulty,
but he had washed the sand from his face with water
from the artesian well behind the tower, changed his
uniform, brushed the sand from his yellow hair, and
put on a smart gold-laced cap instead of his sun-helmet.
The spectacles were gone from his eyes, and between
his lips was a large Havana—­his last, kept
by him among the dunes as a possible solace in the
dreadful hour of death.

“Monsieur de Trevignac, I want you to dine with
us in camp to-night—­only to dine.
We won’t keep you from your bed one moment after
the coffee and the cognac. You must seal the triple
alliance—­France, Russia, England—­in
some champagne.”

She had spoken gaily, cordially. She added more
gravely:

“One doesn’t escape from death among the
dunes every day. Will you come?”

She held out her hand frankly, as a man might to another
man. He pressed it as a man presses a woman’s
hand when he is feeling very soft and tender.

“Madame, what can I say, but that you are too
good to us poor fellows and that you will find it
very difficult to get rid of us, for we shall be so
happy in your camp that we shall forget all about our
tower.”

“That’s settled then.”

With the brand in her hand she walked to the edge
of the hill. De Trevignac followed her.
He had taken the other brand from Marelle. They
stood side by side, overlooking the immense desolation
that was now almost hidden in the night.